


we eclipse such trivial things as life and death

by sevensevan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Road Trips, Season/Series 03, character introspection, the tags on here are gonna get real long pretty soon, title is from a poem of mine that might go up on my blog someday, trigger warnings will be in notes on applicable chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-13 13:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensevan/pseuds/sevensevan
Summary: A compilation of stydia oneshots. Most recently: chapter 5: Even as Stiles is breaking her heart, he loves her better than anyone else ever has.





	1. i pictured your face (and it was almost like you were there)

**Author's Note:**

> my first (posted) foray into the teen wolf fandom. i have no idea how it took me this long; i spend a lot of time crying over stydia and even more time crying about allison. i don't know how often this will be updated, especially with my faberry project (which will begin to be posted by the end of august, if you wanna read that), but i'm aiming for at least once a week. i'm trying that thing where you shuffle your music library and write based on the first song that comes up. this one is based on california by ross copperman, although very, very loosely. i'm not entirely sure how it ended up here, to be honest. enjoy.

The beach always makes him think of her.

He has a photo, printed out and framed on his nightstand, where he sees it every morning when he wakes up in his too-large bed and rolls over, looking for warmth, looking for strawberry blonde hair and a grumpy, adorable, not-a-morning-person frown. He never finds it, but he sees a wide smile and bare feet in the sand surrounded by a wooden frame, and it isn’t the same, it isn’t enough, but it’s something.

He carries his shoes when he comes out here.

(The first time she had showed him this place, hidden up the coast from the crowded beach, he had worn shoes the entire walk. She had mocked him endlessly for a week, until the sand finally came out of his insoles.)

Their spot is nearly a mile and a half up the coast, but he welcomes the distance and the sand beneath his bare feet, watching the ocean as the tide crawls out, walking through the wet sand it leaves behind and stepping around jellyfish, shells, and the various debris left behind by the tide.

(She had loved beachcombing; there’s a jar of glass she had found on the beach sitting on the windowsill in their bedroom. _Sea glass,_ she had called it, as if it was some grand and mysterious thing. The sun shines through it every morning, painting their off-white walls and plain carpet every conceivable shade of green and blue and amber and red. It’s the second thing he sees every morning: first the picture, then the light.)

The walk is over before he even realizes he’s gone anywhere. Their spot is high up on the shore, where plants are forcing their way through the sand that’s beginning to resemble dirt. There’s a patch of grass, tucked under a massive rock that had split in two an unknown time before. The two halves of the rock lean into each other, leaving a cave of sorts between them, about five feet tall and six feet deep, and wide enough across for both of them to lie beside each other comfortably.

He quickly ascends the gentle slope of the shoreline, sitting down in the cave and leaning back against the rock of the back wall with a sigh. He takes his necklace off, rolling the rounded piece of light green sea glass on its leather cord between his hands absently. She had given it to him three years ago. Here is the only place he ever takes it off.

(Maybe he’s seeing what he wants to see, but sunlight through the glass is the same shade as her eyes.)

“Hey, Lydia,” he says, gazing out across the beach towards the ocean. He receives no answer but the quiet rush of waves lapping at the sand. “I have something for you.” He digs into his pocket, pulling out a piece of amber-colored glass he had found on the walk here. “You probably have, like, a million pieces just like this already. But it was pretty, and I suck at gifts. You know that.” He slips his necklace back on. He sets the amber glass down next to him and slides forward, lying down and fixing his gaze on the tiny crack that crosses the rock ceiling above him, where sunlight is finding its way through, golden and gentle and warm against his skin.

(If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend the warmth of the light is the warmth of her hands.)

“It’s kinda dumb,” he says after an endless time, when the angle of the sun has changed and half of his face is in shadow. “Me talking to you here and not, y’know, where you actually are.” He listens to the waves for a few minutes, pretending he can hear her voice amongst them. “It’s easier, I guess,” he continues, as if he hadn’t paused. “You belong here. You don’t belong _there_.” He sits up, looking out at the waves again. “I miss you,” he says, eyes fixed on the endless ocean. He stands as best he can, stooping over beneath the low ceiling, and steps out of the cave, leaving the amber glass behind on the grass.

“Oh!” he says suddenly, turning back to face the cave. “I almost forgot. I told Scott about me coming here. I know the spot is our secret, but it’s _Scott_. There are no secrets.” He smiles a bit, picturing her rolling her eyes in exasperation at his excessive attachment to his best friend. “He, uh, he told me to pass along a message,” he continues. “He says you should tell Allison that he loves her, and he misses her.” He takes a deep breath and lets it slowly, running a hand through his hair.

(He had grown it out when they moved out to the coast. She had liked it, and he would do anything to make her happy, even if she isn’t here to see it.)

“So yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s about it. I’ll talk to you next week, Lyds. Love you.” With that, he turns from the cave, wandering back down the beach, shoes in hand, wind pulling at his long hair, necklace sliding against his chest under his shirt with every step.

Behind him, the sun shines through the crack in the rock, glinting off the piece of glass lying in the cave.

When he comes back a week later, the glass is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry????? i don't know how this happened, i swear i didn't start this with the intention of lydia being dead. and yet here we are. follow this work for more oneshots/drabbles/sad introspective messes coming soon. feel free to leave prompts in the comments! i would love to write for you guys! leave a kudos and a comment if you enjoyed! my writing tumblr is @thoughts-into-ink, and my multifandom blog is @daisys-quake. hope you liked it!


	2. we make like angels (and get the hell out of here)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is set during their senior year in an all human au. it's happy this time, i promise. chapter title from seventeen by saywecanfly.

Lydia’s heels click against the floor of the hallway, and she winces at the way the sound rings like a gunshot in the empty corridor. She speeds up, hurrying down the stairs towards her locker, where a duffel bag is forced inside, the metal door barely closing over it. She glances over her shoulder nervously as she spins the lock; it’s unlikely anyone will confront her (she’s _Lydia Martin_ , after all; she may as well be royalty in this school), but she’d rather not encounter an overeager hall monitor while carrying a suspiciously full backpack _and_ a duffel. It would be rather difficult to explain.

She hurries down the hall, backpack on and duffel slung over her shoulder. Her eyes dart to the left as she passes one of the chemistry classrooms. It’s third period, meaning Allison is sitting in the back of Mr. Harris’s classroom, hopelessly flirting with Scott McCall (who, _somehow_ , remains oblivious). Lydia lets her mind drift an hour into the future, when Allison will come looking for her at lunchtime and find an empty locker. She’ll probably dismiss it, assuming Lydia is off with some jock or another, flirting her way into a free lunch off campus.

She couldn’t be more wrong.

Allison will start to wonder in fifth period English, their only shared class, when Lydia doesn’t show up to claim the seat beside her. She’ll brush it off uneasily, because Lydia could be sick or skipping, right?

(Lydia hasn’t missed a single class since eighth grade.)

Lydia will send her a text when school gets out. She already knows what it will say: a picture of the road ahead of her and a simple _don’t worry about me_. Allison will show it to Lydia’s mother, who will undoubtedly blow up her daughter’s phone with texts and voicemails telling her to _come back, come back now_. Lydia will pull her SIM card out of her phone and leave it in a trashcan at a gas station somewhere. Her mother won’t get a response until Lydia is long, long gone.

Lydia pushes her way out of the back doors of the school, the bright California sunlight momentarily blinding her. She’s walking as quickly as she can now; the only thing stopping her from breaking into a run is the impracticality of her heels.

(She has running shoes and a selection of stylish flats shoved into the bottom of her duffel. The boy escaping with her had rolled his eyes at her insistence on maintaining her fashion sense, bringing only a bag of random clothes from his dresser and the beat up Converse on his feet.)

She rushes across the parking lot, heart beginning to beat faster. The old Jeep is parked near the entrance, and leaning against its hood is her way out of this town.

(He’s so, _so_ much more than just that.)

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, waving at her enthusiastically. She winces at the volume of his voice and makes a _quiet down_ gesture, but she can’t stop a huge smile from spreading across her face.

“Hey,” she parrots back to him at a much more reasonable volume. He takes her bags without any sort of prompting, before she can even begin to place them in the back of the Jeep herself, and the gesture makes warmth spread through her chest.

“All ready to go?” he asks, slamming the back of the Jeep with her bags safely inside. Lydia looks at him, considering the question.

(“Do you ever think about running away?” she asked. Stiles turned from where he was attempting to analyze all possible future plotlines and every continuity issue on _Game of Thrones_ on his whiteboard.

His idea, not hers.

“What, like, out of Beacon Hills?” he asked, capping his marker and spinning it through his fingers. Lydia rolled her eyes.

“That was implied,” she drawled. Stiles sat down in his desk chair, pulling it up alongside his bed, where Lydia was lying on her stomach, feet absently kicking at the air.

“Yeah, actually,” he said softly, taking Lydia by surprise. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad and Scott and his mom and school, sometimes, and my whole life here, but…I don’t know. This can’t be all there is, right?”

“Right,” Lydia agreed in a murmur. She looked at him appraisingly. His harmless, one-sided crush on her was usually just that, a harmless teenage crush. But sometimes, like right then, when his eyes were gentle and he seemed to understand her so perfectly…

Well, sometimes she thought that maybe those feelings weren’t quite so one-sided.

“Do you want to run away with me?” Lydia asked next. The marker in Stiles’s hands stilled.

“Are we still talking hypothetically?” he asked. Lydia smirked.

“Not entirely.”)

He hadn’t even hesitated when she laid out her plan a week later. He had volunteered his Jeep and his company, and Lydia, looking at him now, with his hands tapping out rhythms against his legs and his weight nervously shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be gone, suddenly can’t remember why she ever wanted them to be just friends.

“I just have one more thing to do,” she answers.

“What–“

She cuts him off with a kiss.

He freezes for a moment, and if Lydia pulled away, he would probably have an adorably shocked expression on his face. But she doesn’t particularly _want_ to pull away, and when she grips the front of Stiles’s shirt tightly in both fists and pulls him closer, he seems to take the hint, sliding his hands onto her waist and returning the kiss enthusiastically.

By the time they do break apart, Lydia kind of wants to go back in time a few years and slap her old self upside the head for wasting her time on a series of first line lacrosse players when she could’ve been making out with _Stiles_.

“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently. Lydia grins up at him.

“I call first choice of music,” she whispers, and quickly slides out of his arms, darting over to the passenger side door and climbing into the Jeep.

“What– _hey_!” Stiles seems to have regained some of his mental faculties, and he runs around to the other side of the car. She’s giggling as she plugs her phone into the speaker they had purchased for the drive (the Jeep is old enough to not have an auxiliary port). Stiles jumps up into the driver’s seat, shaking his head at her gleeful expression as the first notes of a Lady Gaga song begin to play. He puts the key in the ignition, and the Jeep actually starts on the first try for once.

“Where to first, my lady?” he jokes, looking over at her. She rolls her eyes and smacks his arm lightly at his entirely dorky behavior.

_God_ , she’s in love with him.

“North,” she decides. “Portland is nice.” Stiles puts the Jeep in gear and pulls out of the parking lot. The vehicle is quiet, other than Lydia’s music, as they maneuver through the streets of Beacon Hills and out onto the highway headed north.

Stiles shifts up and leans back in his seat, but before he can remove his hand from the gear lever, Lydia reaches out and catches it in her own. He shoots her a glance and a smile as she tangles their fingers together and lets their hands rest on the center console.

Neither of them bother asking what the kiss meant. They don’t have to. They both know exactly what it meant.

_Just friends_ don’t run away together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! requests are always open. my writing tumblr is @thoughts-into-ink, and my multifandom blog is @daisys-quake. leave kudos and a comment!


	3. i think you love me too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back with more pointless stydia feelings. first chapter of my faberry au goes up tomorrow, and since i'm pounding out the last four chapters of that right now, posts on this one might slow down a bit for awhile. look out for that if you're interested, though; i wanna see how much overlap there is between that fandom and this one. i'm guessing not very much lmao. anyway, this time we have eight hundred words of lydia being angsty in early season three. enjoy.

It’s after the birds fly through the windows and leave the classroom in tatters that it happens.

Or maybe it’s always been happening, and it’s just the first time Lydia notices it. She’s beginning to realize that she hasn’t noticed a lot of things when it comes to Stiles.

He dives for her. It’s not a second thought, it’s not a last-minute realization that he should protect her out of some misguided sense of chivalry. It’s simply the first thing he does.

When the first bird breaks through the window, he doesn’t jump for cover or run for the door or follow any other logical course of action. He doesn’t even scream (and while she would undoubtedly mock him for it later, screaming wouldn’t be entirely unjustified in what feels like a Beacon Hills take on a Hitchcock film). No, he jumps for _her._ The first thought that runs through his head in the face of impending disaster is of _her_.

Lydia wishes it wasn’t. She isn’t entirely sure why; her aloof attitude towards him is less out of genuine dislike these days and more out of habit and a penchant for friendly, almost fond banter. He can actually keep up with her when she talks about theoretical physics or the potential of 3D-printing biological material; it’s a nice change from her pre-Peter Hale friends, whose conversational abilities didn’t extend beyond makeup, boys, celebrities, and mocking their peers, and while Lydia _enjoys_ all of those things, they aren’t her passion (Allison tries, she really does; she listens to Lydia rattle off her ideas, her dreams, the things she wants to study, her theories on how the supernatural world interacts with the scientific one; but she’s good at shooting supernatural creatures full of arrows, not trying to figure out how they work. Lydia doesn’t hold it against her, but still, she needs _someone_ to talk to whose eyes won’t glaze over five minutes in). He’s even attractive, she supposes, in a spastic, odd, dorky sort of way that involves far too much flannel and hair ruffling for her tastes.

No, Stiles’ persistent crush on her doesn’t bother her the way it used to. It’s almost cute, how she can make him nervous with a touch on his arm or a smile. He’s a bit better at hiding the nerves than he used to be, but Lydia knows exactly what to look for: the slight widening of his eyes, the way he changes positions every fifteen seconds to what he thinks might look more attractive, the babbling (although that’s a bit of a constant when it comes to Stiles), the nervous smile he gets whenever she actually laughs at one of his stupid jokes.

(Lydia tries not to think about _why_ she notices all the little signs of his feelings for her that she could so easily brush off.)

It isn’t the idea of Stiles having feelings for her that bothers her. It’s the way he held her when the birds were in the room, shielding her with his body, like she was the only thing he was thinking about, taking priority over himself, over every single other person in the room. It makes her uneasy, like her skin shrinks a few sizes when he’s around, leaving her constantly moving and stretching, trying to push it back into place. It makes her unable to sit still in his presence, always shifting and pacing.

(Stiles notices, she’s sure; Stiles notices _everything_ when it comes to her.)

She sees him, the day after the bird attack. There’s only a few cuts visible, one on his forehead and a few on each arm; but she sees the way he moves like he’s in pain, the way he leans forward against his desk instead of slouching back into his chair, and she knows it’s because his back is covered in small, deep wounds from the pecks of the swarm of birds. She knows he has them because _she_ doesn’t, because he had protected her, and even though he hasn’t said anything, would never say anything, would never try to make her feel like she owes him, she _does_ owe him, and that makes her wish she could go back and shove him off of her, take the bites and pain on herself.

(Lydia Martin doesn’t owe _anyone_. Except now she owes Stiles, and that makes her _angry._ )

The nerves, the need to impress her, all of that, Lydia can easily write off as a harmless crush, an attraction to her based more on the fact that she’s the only girl who consistently spends time with him who _isn’t_ her best friend’s ex than any actual affection for her as an individual. But the complete disregard for his own safety in favor of hers…that isn’t something one does for their high school crush, no matter how long before high school said crush began. That speaks of something deeper, something stronger, something more permanent. Something Lydia is altogether unprepared for.

Although, when she thinks about it, Lydia is altogether unprepared for everything that is Stiles Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it. i'm on tumblr @thoughts-into-ink and @daisys-quake. requests are always open. leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed!


	4. everything is there (but it's too close and it's too much)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another plotless introspection thing from the depths of my fic ideas folder. also from lydia's perspective, because i love lydia martin more than anything. this one doesn't even really have a timeline tbh, just covers some of lydia's feelings from the locker room kiss all the way into early s6. chapter title from i won't forget you by alec benjamin. enjoy.

Lydia can’t pinpoint the exact moment that everything changes.

(That’s a lie, of course; she knows precisely when her world tilted on its axis, when suddenly colors started to bleed into the air itself, when she started to feel every single beat of her heart inside her chest, when her body started to be too small to contain the sheer vivid intensity of her whirlwind of emotions, when she kissed Stiles Stilinski on the floor of a locker room. But she would never acknowledge that, because that would mean loving him, and that would mean trusting him, and that would mean giving another stupid boy power over her, and she is _never_ going to make that mistake again.)

It changes, though. Suddenly she _notices_ things, notices _everything_. She notices the way Stiles is always moving (she’s noticed before; it’s kind of hard to miss), but not the way his leg is always bouncing, shaking his desk and irritating everyone in the classroom. She notices the patterns his fingertips trace on his desk, triskelions and concentric circles and sometimes Greek letters. She notices the way he mouths words as he writes, and the way his silent talking is always miles ahead of his pencil. She notices the way his eyes flit around, from the board to his book, to Scott, two rows ahead, to the board again, to her, to the clock, to her, to Scott, to her.

(Always coming back to her.)

She notices the dark circles that appear under his eyes sometimes; they make him look empty and sallow (and she pretends that the sight doesn’t give her an odd sort of ache behind her breastbone). She goes to his house when the exhaustion appears. They sit in his room; first he talks for hours about science or magic or mythology, and she listens, even though if it had been anyone else they would lose her attention in the first five minutes. Then she talks about whatever comes to mind until his eyelids start to flutter, and then she sits on his bed and pulls his head into her lap and runs her fingers through his hair until he sleeps.

(She pretends that the way he shakes in his sleep, trying to run from an invisible terror, doesn’t make her stomach twist painfully. She pretends that his unconscious whispers of endless combinations of “Allison” and “I’m sorry” doesn’t make her want to shake him awake and scream at him that _it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, it’s not his_ ** _fault_**. She pretends that the way he quiets and stills when she lays him down and curls into his side ( _just for a few minutes_ , she reminds herself, _just so he can sleep_ ) doesn’t make her want to stay.

Because of all the things that Lydia Martin is good at, pretending has always been her biggest talent.)

She notices how, as gentle as Stiles unfailingly is with her, he never once lies to her. On the anniversary of Allison’s death, when she shows up at his house with empty eyes and shaking hands, he doesn’t tell her it will be okay. He takes her up to his room and they lie on his bed and he holds her until she lets herself cry into his chest. Whenever he and Scott are sneaking around, doing dangerous things, if she asks, he tells her what’s happening, even though she can see in his eyes that all he wants is to keep her out of it, to keep her _safe_.

(She remembers Jackson, even though she tries not to most of the time, and remembers the constant lies, the excuses and the canceled dates and every time he told her to stop crying, that things would be okay, and even though she ignores it, a voice in her head tells her how much _better_ loving Stiles would be.)

She notices how he looks at her sometimes (all the time), like she’s the only thing he sees in color. She notices how she’s always the first person he looks to, the first person he makes sure is okay. She notices how he touches her, like he knows he can’t break her but still wants to be gentle (but he _could_ break her, even if he doesn’t know it; he could shatter her irreparably if he wanted to).

She notices how he loves her, faithfully and unflinchingly and he never falters, even when she pushes him away with all her strength; she sees how he loves her, and it terrifies her.

He brings it up once; that kiss in the locker room. They’re in his room; he’s reading some shady website about one obscure mythological creature (that may or may not be real) or another. She’s lying on his bed, book open in front of her, but she hasn’t read a word in the past ten minutes, instead subtly watching Stiles scribble notes, occasionally jumping up to tack various bits of paper to his bulletin board. Suddenly, he turns, and Lydia snaps her eyes back to her book.

“Hey Lydia?” he asks. She hums, not looking up. “That day in the locker room…” She looks up at him then, and she’s not really sure what expression is on her face, but the panic rising in her chest must shine through, because he turns back to his computer and mumbles, “Never mind,” and that’s the last they speak of it.

She notices what he does with people he loves. He lets her in, just a little bit at a time, and she doesn’t even really notice it until suddenly she knows everything about him, every scar on his body and mind. It stops being a question of whether or not she’d follow him off a cliff and it becomes just a fact of life, that she’d hold his hand on the way down. All of a sudden, she’s a part of him, like another limb, and she doesn’t think to question it until she realizes that she treats him the same way, like he’s her heart and her lungs and her blood would freeze in her veins without him. They stop being two distinct beings with two separate minds. They stop being _Lydia-and-Stiles_ and they become _LydiaandStilesandLydiaStilesLydia_ , names sliding together until she isn’t sure where one ends and the other begins, souls sliding together until neither of them have an end or a beginning; it’s just him and her without a single barrier between them. And then he’s _gone_ one day, and even before she remembers him she feels like half a person. She’s heard of phantom limbs, when amputees feel agonizing pain in limbs that aren’t there anymore, and maybe that’s what this is, but she’s walking around like a zombie and she can’t think and she can’t even fucking _breathe_ , because he isn’t here and she’s forgotten how to live without him.

Lydia has never subscribed to the idea that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, but she’s reconsidering, because suddenly there’s a gaping void in her life where Stiles is supposed to be, and she never realized just how much she _needed_ him until she wakes up and he _isn’t there_.

She just goes home after school now (because Allison is dead and Stiles is _gone_ , and she thinks maybe _he’s_ supposed to be her best friend now, and as much as she’s friends with everyone, she doesn’t really have any _friends_. Scott, of course, and Malia, but their conversations are littered with empty pauses, as if they’re all waiting for a fourth person to speak up with a stupid joke or an awkward stutter). She lies in her room and stares at her ceiling and tries with every inch of her soul to _remember_. But she can’t find anything more than the ghost of more emotion than she knows what to do with, and a single image of sunlight shining through dust in the air of a locker room to glint off of wide, brown eyes.

She wishes she knew why that memory makes her hands shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr @thoughts-into-ink and @daisys-quake. requests are always open if you have a prompt you'd like to see me write! on a side note, i'm still looking for a beta reader. hmu on tumblr or in the comments if you're interested. leave a comment and kudos if you liked it!


	5. what a shame, how incomplete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek man. i'm in a weird mood today and this is the result. title from and inspired by false start by rusty clanton.

They break up their junior year of college.

Part of it is the distance. Part of it is the way Stiles doesn’t have nightmares anymore because he hasn’t fought anything supernatural in years, and their connection feels almost fragile without blood and death tying them together. Part of it is Lydia’s growing control over her powers, the way she never stops seeing things now, the way that, nine times out of ten, she doesn’t bother calling Stiles to tell him about the visions. 

All of it breaks both their hearts.

It happens over coffee in December. They’re both back in Beacon Hills for Christmas, and they sit at a table by the window, because Lydia loves watching snow falling and even as Stiles is breaking her heart, he loves her better than anyone else ever has.

“This isn’t working,” he says gently as she stares out the window at the darkening sky.

“I know,” she agrees, lacing her fingers together around her hot chocolate. “I was just hoping we could pretend it is for awhile longer.” Stiles offers her a sad smile and stares down at his white cardboard coffee cup.

( _He’s not supposed to have caffeine_ , her brain reminds her. She has to remind herself that it isn’t her job to take care of him.

Not anymore.)

“I love you,” Stiles says quietly, still staring at his cup. Lydia doesn’t turn away from the window. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I love you, too.” Stiles nods. He stands from his chair and takes a few steps away. He hesitates, though, and turns back. Lydia doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him. She keeps her eyes fixed on the falling snow and the frosted window. Stiles steps back, places his hand on her shoulder. Lydia has to consciously stop herself from leaning into his touch.

“Lydia…” he hesitates. There’s ten thousand words hanging unspoken in the air between them, but neither of them can bring themselves to voice a single one. “Just…be happy, okay?” Lydia doesn’t respond, but Stiles seems to take her silence as an answer. He leans down and kisses her forehead before walking away.

Lydia watches him walk away through the window and wonders why this doesn’t feel like an ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, idek. i'm on tumblr @thoughts-into-ink and @daisys-quake. fic requests are always open. leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed my nonsensical but angst-ridden ramblings.


End file.
